


The Whitewater

by Nightshards



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Atlantis, Canon Character of Color, Canon Compliant, Companions, Earth, Episode: s03e01 Smith and Jones, Gen, Historical References, Interfering TARDIS, Military, Navy, Ocean, Outer Space, POV Martha Jones, POV Multiple, Physics, Science Fiction, Sonic Screwdriver, Time Shenanigans, Time Travel, Underwater, Utopia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:58:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9318206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightshards/pseuds/Nightshards
Summary: This canon compliant story takes place directly after the episode "Smith and Jones."The Doctor offers his new companion, Martha, the chance to go anywhere and any-when in time and space, but before he can do that, his TARDIS malfunctions and takes him to a mysterious environment. The instruments show that he is on Earth during the year 1918, but can they be trusted?Meanwhile, explore the last moments of the Ill fated USS Cyclops - a battleship long thought to have been claimed by the treacherous Bermuda Triangle.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an ongoing story and will be updated as regularly as time allows. Any criticism (positive or negative) is immensely appreciated, and I will have no problem with, in turn, providing my opinion on some of your work as well. Thank you for reading!

The sea was glassy, and not one cloud bothered to trek across the vast, azure sky that stretched from horizon to horizon. At times like this, floating aboard a freighter in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, it wouldn't be difficult to imagine that it was suspended motionlessly in the middle of an immense, blue sphere - indeed, the occasional flapping of the American flag hoisted high above the starboard was the only indication that the ship was moving at all.  The massive steam engine propelling the USS Cyclops forward was the only cause of the artificial breeze that almost imperceptibly weaved its way through the ship's deck.

 

In spite of the gentle calm of the sea, a volatile atmosphere currently plagued the USS Cyclops. Including the crewmen and their captain, the ship was carrying a little over 300 passengers. This _particular_ ship had the misfortune of being commanded by one George Worley - a man who was (not even slightly affectionately) christened "The Damned Dutchman." This wasn't because of his German heritage (his real name was Johan Wichmann), or even because of his sympathies with the Germans (in spite of the turmoil raging across the ocean). It was simply because, modestly speaking, George Worley was one of the most wretchedly vexatious human beings to ever have lived. Ironically, while effortlessly maintaining the rigors of being a particularly horrible person, he was also a notably accomplished Captain - having served in the Navy just shy of 20 years. In fact, in spite of many attempts by his crew to remove him from his position through (mostly) official channels, Worley remained one of the most efficient and competent Captains of the auxiliary service. He was always infuriatingly _there_ , Captain of the USS Cyclops, defiantly proving that one need not be pleasant, or even decent, to obtain and maintain a position of power.

 

Today especially had been a strenuous day aboard the Cyclops, as a minor disagreement about political views between Captain Worley and the surgeon's apprentice, Ensign Howard, had inexplicably resulted in Worley confining him to his quarters for the remainder of the Cyclops’ nonstop week long journey. It, unsurprisingly, was no secret that paranoia wracked Worley's every thought, and even the _slightest_ perception of disloyalty or mutinous action would likely involve him, for lack of a better term, erupting at the perceived source of the indignation (and anyone nearby). His nasty temper was so glaringly overt, the crew (and no small number of non-crew) began calling anybody with an unsavory disposition a "regular Worley." Suffice it to say, the phrase caught on quickly (as things often do on a crowded ship) and was eventually an integral part of nautical slang aboard the Cyclops. Usually, Worley's presence would have stopped the slang that was coined (not really) in his honor; however, increasing numbers of people using it emboldened others to do so as well. After all, he couldn't throw the _whole ship_ in their quarters, could he?

 

George Worley was _pissed_.

 

It was bad enough, he reflected, that he had to deal with such gross, disrespectful incompetence throughout his crew. But now even the _passengers_ were becoming disrespectful towards him - an honorable US Navy Captain no less – and, on top of that, assumed he would do _nothing_. As far as he was concerned, a Captain that allowed his whole crew (or anyone, for that matter) to treat him as a joke _was_ a joke - and as soon as he was universally viewed as a joke, he would subsequently be viewed as _weak_. And a weak Captain didn't _stay_ a Captain for very long.

 

They thought he wasn't intelligent enough to see where this was going.

 

They thought he wasn't _clever_.

 

He had to do _something_.

 

But first, he had to figure out what "something" was.

 

As his pallid face contorted deep in thought, Worley patrolled the hallways of the ship’s quarters, only occasionally using his signature cane (an object wielded more commonly for "discipline" than balance, unless, of course, he was drunk). He suddenly stopped walking as he overheard boisterous laughter around the corner. _Eavesdropping has always been one of my more... fruitful skills_ , he reflected, lying flat against the wall, just out of sight of the laughing crewmen. _I look bloody ridiculous,_ he thought, _a grown Officer of the US Navy spying on his own crew and passengers_. But the need for information sometimes eclipsed the need for dignity. If there were, in fact, a mutinous plot, _nothing_ would stop him from finding out about it.

 

Worley listened.

 

“And so I said, bend over and I’ll _show_ you what it does!” said one voice, with what he must have thought was perfect comedic flair.

 

The end of this joke that Worley was listening in on was met with further laughter from two men, including the one that told the joke. He was, however, able to stifle his laughter long enough to say “Oh, come on Hodge, have a chuckle. That was funny as hell. You don’t have to be a ‘Worley’ about it!”

 

That was _it_.

 

Worley rather suddenly showed himself, surprising the two Ensigns that happened to be facing him. The other Ensign, the one telling the jokes, had his back turned. He continued talking, oblivious to reason behind the abrupt silence.

 

“Oh, what? Holmes, you too? It’s not like the bugger is anywhere near us. He’s probably out on deck, cursing the wind for not blowing hard enough -”

 

Ensign Holmes and Ensign Hodge’s faces were pallid as they stared helplessly over the Ensign’s shoulders, their eyes were frozen in abject horror. Having realized the implications of the unspoken words of his comrades, the joker reluctantly turned around.

 

“C-Captain Worley. Sir!” He tried to manage a salute, but his nerves made him smack his eye as his hand quickly assaulted what he could have sworn was supposed to have been his forehead.

 

This seemed to infuriate the Captain even further.

 

“Ensign.. _Cain_ , is it?” said Worley, in an uncomfortably calm voice. The tall, lanky Ensign who was laughing just a few seconds earlier nodded more vigorously than, perhaps, was necessary to confirm that he knew his name. Worley continued, every word spoken slowly, deliberately: “It seems that you feel that I am a _joke_.”

 

“N-no sir!” Cain’s skinny face now glistened with nervous sweat. “It was just a bit of fun, honest! I would never -”

 

 _“BUT YOU DID!”_ Worley’s voice boomed, suddenly thunderous. He inhaled noticeably deeply, then proceeded to speak calmly once more. “I’m sorry. Sometimes my emotions get the _better_ of me.” Indeed, Worley’s round face was flushed red with anger, a vein beginning to pulsate in his left temple. Odd, then, that a slight smile would cross it as he continued to speak. “What I mean to say, Ensign Cain, is while _you_ may view what you call ‘a bit of fun’ as just that, there are _others_ -” his gazed now pierced at the two horrified Ensigns behind Cain “Who would take me, by extension of your ‘bit of fun’ joke as an _actual_ joke. Tell me, Cain,” he looked back at the lanky crewman, “If you were a Captain, and your crew was making a mockery of you, how would _you_ handle it?”

 

Cain stammered – “Well… I-I didn’t think -”

 

“I had _noticed_ that,” Worley spat, indignant. “Nonetheless,” he continued, “examples must be made. If I am a joke to you, I am a joke to _others_. If I am a joke to others, they think me _weak_. If I am weak, then I am unfit to _lead_. If I am unfit to lead, there will be a _mutiny_.” Worley paused as a foreboding silence hung in the air. “What you have _done_ , Ensign Cain, is no less than conspiracy to commit mutinous actions.” As he was speaking, Worley swiftly removed his revolver from his holster and aimed it at Ensign Cain, who then began to sob like an abandoned child. The other two Ensigns ran off, eager to live another day. Worley slowly pulled back the hammer, cocking the revolver, a larger, deranged smile now dominating his face.

 

“Let me _show_ you what happens to people who want to stage a mutiny.”

 

Before the situation progressed further, a steady voice spoke softly, but clearly, behind Worley.

 

“Ensign Cain. You do not look well. I must insist on using my authority as the ship’s surgeon to immediately dismiss you to the infirmary.”

 

“Y-yes sir!” replied a stammering Cain, as he immediately proceeded to run as fast as his legs would allow to the infirmary.

 

Worley spun around, gun in hand. “Asper,” he sneered in an especially venomous tone. “Did you just undermine the authority of the Captain of this ship?” In an instant, Worley appeared to regain composure, displaying the type of calm you may experience while in the eye of a hurricane.

 

A short, hefty man of about 60 looked back at him, unfazed and sincere. “I would never presume to do that, my Captain. As I have told you on a few occasions, it is my primary duty as assigned by the great United States Navy to place the health of all the –”

 

“Shut UP. Just shut up.” He now aimed his revolver directly at Asper’s head, all composure leaving him. “You would _lead_ them, wouldn’t you, old man? They would follow you, march over my dead body and help you send it to a watery _grave_ -”

 

Just then, a shout echoed through the hallway. “Captain! You are immediately needed on deck! It is an emergency!”

 

Worley stared for what seemed like an eternity into the eyes of Asper, who stared back, giving absolutely no emotion in return. Lowering and holstering the revolver, Worley took a few steps towards him, leaned into his ear, and said: “I am already 5 steps _ahead_ of you and your mutiny, Asper. You will _never_ have my ship. Not while I yet live.” After another pause, Worley quickly strode down the hallway, towards the deck.

 

Worley emerged from the quarters onto the deck to find a large group of people doing nothing but gazing intently towards the horizon. No “wind” was blowing, so it would appear the USS Cyclops was at a complete stop. “What in the nine hells are you dogs looking at?” he yelled, spotting the crewmen towards the front of the queue. He was met with no reply, so he forced his way through the throng, cursing at anyone in his proximity just to remind them he was there. Then, as he emerged from the last cluster of people, he saw it.

 

“Impossible,” he said, accurately.

 

Off towards the horizon, the sea ceased to be blue, and seemingly did this for miles and miles. Instead, it was a bright, nearly transparent, shimmering white.


	2. Chapter 2

“Martha Martha _Jones_.” These were the words being spoken by a skinny man wearing a long, blue suit, converse sneakers, and (he would call it) a stylish hairstyle. “I promised you one trip in space and time to anywhere you can imagine. Or,” he scrunched his striking face in an exaggerated and slightly comical way “For that matter, anywhere you _can’t_ imagine. Did you know,” his face was now lighting up with the glee of someone who had just remembered an amazing story to tell, “That there is a planet made _entirely_ of cottage cheese? Well, when I say cottage cheese, what I _mean_ is the embryos of migratory subspace plankton. _Well_ , not that they are _strictly_ subspace. Or even plankton, at least most days -”

 

“Do you _ever_ stop talking for more than a few seconds?” Martha asked, looking wide eyed at the Doctor. She wasn’t over the initial shock of being whisked away by a Time Lord in a police box that was, actually, _not_ a police box, but, as far as she knew, a spaceship time machine that was inexplicably _larger_ on the inside than the outside. She wondered if _all_ the Doctors were like him in the future.

 

“Talking is my thing,” the Doctor replied simply. “Gotten me out of quite a few jams, talking. Well, that and my knowledge of Victorian literature.” The Doctor began to reminisce. “That Christina Rosetti, now _there’s_ someone who could make a good pie -”

 

“Literature,” Martha muttered, absent mindedly playing with the end of her hair. “It must be amazing to be able to meet up with so many great minds whenever you feel like it.” She sat down on what she thought was a chair. There were so many instruments on the TARDIS, it was hard to tell a vital working part of the ship from a common seating arrangement. The Doctor didn’t seem to mind, so she assumed it was okay. She looked down, noticing that she was still in her medical attire. Luckily, under the white coat, she had a long sleeved black blouse accompanying a pair of dark brown slacks. It wouldn’t have been her first choice for time traveling attire, but, then again, she didn’t really know what her first choice _would_ have been.

 

“Oh, Martha. It is. It _really_ is. A fan of the written word, are we?” The Doctor asked, beaming. Martha had to stifle an instinct to blush. That smile… “Yes,” she said, meekly.

 

“ _Well_ , Martha Jones, I have a wonderful idea that I’m at _least_ 45% sure you’re going to absolutely love -”

 

A sudden jerk would have jolted the Doctor across the room if it wasn’t for the firm grip he had on one of the TARDIS instruments. Martha, however, had no such luck as she was flung against what she could only assume to be a wall. She wasn’t hurt, but it was quite the shocking experience. On this day, Martha learned that on the TARDIS, it’s easy to forget that you are in fact in a ship, hurtling through space and/or time.

 

“What?” The Doctor asked, to nobody in general. He seemed rather perplexed.

 

“Doctor!” Martha called from the wall she was flung into. “What’s happening?!”

 

“I... I _didn’t.”_ The Doctor blinked, shook his head quickly, and squared his shoulders. “Right, Martha, this part is important. Don’t _panic_. Can you _promise_ me you’ll not panic, Martha Jones?” He eyed her, expectantly.

 

Martha was flustered. “Well, I--”

 

“That’s the spirit!” he beamed again and began running frantically around the central control panel of the TARDIS. “Right, as far as I can tell, I have lost _complete_ control of the ship and it is being pulled to a specific point in time and space.” As he said this he was flicking switches, turning knobs, and doing what could only be described as “slapping” certain panels.

 

Now it was Martha’s turn to say it. “What?”

 

The Doctor, not missing a beat, said “Martha, we _really_ must work on your listening skills--”

 

Martha cut the Doctor off. “No. I mean, I heard you, but... are you _accustomed_ to this sort of thing?”

 

“Of _course_ not!” the Doctor said, unconvincingly. “It almost _usually_ never happens. I mean, sometimes. Okay, maybe a few _more_ times than sometimes, but not _many_ \--”

 

The ship jolted again. This time, Martha was braced, but the Doctor slipped and fell.

 

“The _important_ thing, Martha Jones,” he said, springing up, making an unnaturally quick recovery, “is that we are going there for a _reason_. It could be any _where_ , for any _reason!_ ” The TARDIS seemed to have arrived at its destination, as all was completely still.

 

“Right,” said the Doctor as he brushed himself off, acting as if he had this planned all along. He passively checked an instrument on the TARDIS control console. “March, 11th 1918\. And we seem to be... Wait, that isn’t right. _Why?_ ”

 

“Why _what?_ ”

 

“Ever prepared with the appropriate line of questioning, Ms. Jones.” He looked at the instrument again, confirming the location. “We seem to be directly on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, hundreds of miles away from any sort of land. _Well_ , technically we are on land. Away from any sort of beach, _that’s_ more accurate. Is there such a thing as an underwater beach?” He went to open the door, but was stopped as Martha ran in front of him, wedging herself between him and the exit.

 

“Doctor?” she asked, cautiously.

 

“Usually, that’s what I go by.” The Doctor responded.

 

“Let me see if I have an _accurate_ idea of what is going on right now. We are currently in the year 1918. In fact, it is March 11 th. By my calculations, a Monday.”

 

“I’m sure you’re right, Ms. Jones,” The Doctor said, slightly confused. “I would have you misjudged if you aren’t.”

 

“Right,” Martha carefully continued, “The only historically important thing I can recall happening near this day is a deadly influenza pandemic.”

 

“Again, I assume you’re correct, but--”

 

“And instead of anywhere near the pandemic, we are actually in the _bottom_ of the Atlantic Ocean.”

 

Protesting, the Doctor said “Well, when you say it like _that--_ ”

 

“And,” Martha continued, “As the average depth of the Atlantic Ocean is 3,339 meters, the water pressure down here, give or take, could be 4,739 pounds per square inch.”

 

The Doctor blinked. “Quick with math I see, but I don’t understand--”

 

“And you’re about to _open the door._ ”

 

“The Doctor blinked, and then laughed heartily. “HA! Martha, if you think I would _intentionally_ elect to have us crushed like soda cans under an elephant, you have a lot to learn. Stand aside.” He looked meaningfully into her brown eyes. “ _Trust me.”_

Martha stood aside, but it was mainly so she could hide her blushing face from him. The Doctor opened the door-–

 

And water did _not_ rush in, crushing them into barely recognizable goop.

 

What _did_ happen was an unnaturally bright, white light filled the inside of the TARDIS. The Doctor walked out the door.

 

Without the additional thoughts she _should_ have had, Martha followed him.

 

As she slowly walked through the door of the TARDIS, she instinctively shielded her eyes from the garish white light enveloping her. Attempting her first breath outside the TARDIS, she was overcome with a sudden coughing fit. It was as if, momentarily, she was _drowning_ and her lungs were trying to _reject_ the very air she breathed. Thankfully, the fit lasted only a few seconds, and while the air maintained an ominous thickness about it, it proceeded to be entirely breathable.

 

After a cursory glance around her, it seemed they were on a large, almost endless white beach (desert?) that stretched to the visible horizon. Martha eyed the Doctor, who was spinning around comically with his sonic screwdriver in his hand, waving the buzzing instrument hopefully at the air, enticing it to make sense of the situation.

 

“So, you were _sure_ we were on the bottom of the ocean, yes?” Martha asked, peevishly.

 

The Doctor feigned shock. “Martha Jones, there are many things that I _am_ , but wrong is something I almost usually am _not._ Sometimes.” The Doctor cleared his throat. “Either way, there is something about this… _air.”_ He began to lick at the air as it were a cone of cotton candy that was being held just out of reach, and then smacked his lips with a rather disgruntled look on his face. “It tastes like a hangover from Sontaran ale. Or whatever it is they call it. To be fair, it may have been some sort of cleaning agent, but it definitely packed a _punch_.”

 

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Martha said, having nothing to add to the conversation after a reference to an alien version of “Pine Sol.”

 

“Right, nor do I, Ms. Jones. But it is important to keep up a dialogue, yes? That way, we may talk our way into something that _has_ something to do with anything.” The Doctor ceased his antics and faced Martha to continue talking, but something behind her caught his attention. “Like… _that,_ ” he said, pointing his screwdriver accusingly over Martha’s shoulder.

 

Though the look of confusion on the Doctor’s face worried her (he seemed like someone that was accustomed to odd happenings), she slowly looked over her shoulder…

 

And beheld as what could only be described as a colossal oceanic wall. It was as if someone had taken the _entire ocean_ and emptied it into an aquarium - only there was no glass. Schools of fish, sharks, and even whales were swimming around the cerulean waters just yards from where they stood. The “wall” stretched higher than most mountains she had ever seen, and was wide enough to continue both ways to the visible horizon, just like the opposing beach.

 

“That’s not right,” the Doctor said matter-of-factly, as he checked his screwdriver.

 

“I’d concur,” Martha said mildly, “but I’ve not seen too many walls of ocean in my life.”

 

“No, not _that_ ,” the Doctor said dismissively, as if a limitless wall of water were a common occurrence. “You’re very clever, Ms. Jones, about how far does light travel into the ocean?”

 

“Roughly 1,000 meters,” Martha answered, almost instinctively.

 

“Right, and you may notice that this giant Atlantic wall is much _higher_ than 1,000 meters, yet it is brightly lit. By… _something_.”

 

Martha looked around, confirming that the Doctor was correct - organisms that usually survived on the ocean floor in complete darkness were brightly illuminated on the other side of the cerulean barrier. From her observations, it seemed that the only place the light could be coming from…  “Doctor, the air. It is really thick, yeah? And… _bright_.” She moved her arm through the air above her head – Indeed, it seemed to offer resistance to her motion. Less than water, but _definitely_ more than air.

 

 _“Whhhhrrrrreeeeee”_ was the high-pitched sound made by the Doctor’s screwdriver as it finally finished it’s analysis. He examined it intently. “Low density luminescent oxygenated perfluorochemical molecules? These won’t be created for… _centuries._ ”

 

Martha, who was usually extremely intelligent with these things, said “I’m sorry, what?”

 

“Do try to keep up, Ms. Jones. Right now, we are essentially breathing in oxygen rich water molecules that produce _light_.”

 

“So we’re underwater? We actually _are_ at the bottom of the ocean?” Martha said, attempting to grasp the reality of the situation.

 

“Indeed we are, Martha Jones,” the Doctor said. “Breathable water. _Low density_ breathable water, but breathable water nonetheless. Something is wrong here. This shouldn’t _exist_ yet.”

 

Ignoring the fact that, for some reason, breathable water actually exists in the future, Martha said, “So this was once _ocean_ water?”

 

As the Doctor was about to respond, he was interrupted by a cacophony of screams from high above. Both Martha and the Doctor looked up, mouths agape. The USS Cyclops glided slowly overhead, as a poorly thrown paper airplane might, towards the white sands below.


	3. Chapter 3

Pandemonium was rampant aboard the USS Cyclops. Though he would never admit it to anyone, Worley reflected that it may have been a bit premature of him to call the helmsman a “mutinous, lily-livered son of a sea snake” and force him to sail over the white, translucent substance that he assumed to be a different variant of water. At first, all was well, and the USS Cyclops seemed to be sailing as usual; however, the ship now was undeniably _sinking_ , or, more accurately, _sliding_ downwardly into the “water.” The acceleration of the ship seemed to be steadily growing as if it were a sled skimming down an increasingly steep, snow covered hill.

 

“ _Reverse!_ Full Stop and reverse, damn you!” Worley called this out to nobody in particular - the helmsman appeared to have vacated his post in favor of a seat within a departing life boat. Sadly for Worley, there was little chance of other lifeboats being filled in time for anyone to escape the (dully titled) “whitewater,” as the only full life boat began gliding along the side of the cyclops as soon as it was released, sinking (sliding?) more rapidly than the Cyclops was. Soon, the life boat was very nearly to the front of the ship.

 

The USS Cyclops was now _technically_ underwater.

 

An increasing chorus of hacking and coughing filled the air, as everyone inevitably filled their lungs with the mysterious whitewater – then, cries of astonishment at being able to breathe, almost as if they were on the surface. While this amazed Worley as well, the unavoidably severe consequence of crashing into the ocean floor at this speed in a vessel the size of the Cyclops wasn’t lost on him. The Cyclops was traveling as fast as a speeding horse at this point, so he had to think _fast_. After all, he was no good to the US Navy dead, was he?

 

He looked over the side of the ship and considered the life boat, currently passing…

 

_Directly beneath him._

 

Without another word, Worley _leapt_ overboard, followed by the howled curses of the crew members and passengers he left behind, and, oddly enough, a faintly discernable sound that could only be described as “ _VWOOORP VWOOOORP VWOOOOOOORP…_ ”

 

Worley landed in the lifeboat with such force that its trajectory took a massive descending turn, nearly straight downward. The (comparatively) smoothly gliding Cyclops sailed ahead, as the life boat quickly met the ground with a resounding _THUD_ , the shock of which launched Worley and the other passengers from the boat. Worley involuntarily used his famously hard head to break his fall, planting his skull into the ground with a dull “thunk.” As everything was fading to black, he feebly raised his eyes towards the horizon just in time to see the Cyclops violently crash into the sands below, the speed it finally reached at the end of its downward journey faster than any it could have naturally obtained. The large amount of fuel on board the ship was  _not_ ignited, instead the ship was crushed by a very unique, massive implosion, resembling may happen to a sealed tin can having its contents quickly vacuumed out.

 

George Worley passed out.

 

“Get _up_ , you useless oaf!”

George Worley was unceremoniously awakened with a sharp kick to the ribs.

 

Offended that anyone could even _consider_ kicking him in the ribs, let alone actually act on said consideration, Worley opened his eyes with as much indignation as he could muster. “Who _dares -_ ”

 

“You’re lucky I don’t _dare_ to do more than that! You could have killed us all!” The source of the chiding seemed to be coming from, of all people, a young _woman_. She was a shorter girl with olive skin, sporting chestnut brown hair, matching brown eyes and, currently, frowning lips. “After your little stunt, you flung everyone, including _me_ , out of the boat. I’m not sure where everyone went, but after I came to, your sorry hide was the _only_ one other than me left on this God forsaken... is this _even_ a beach?”

 

Worley, shocked that anyone would have the gall to speak to him that way and not even bother to add a “With all due respect, sir,” was at a loss for words. He finally managed a few: “How am I supposed to know where we are, and _who_ are you?” He asked the last question in the same manner as one asking “What is this _disgusting_ filth I just stepped in?”

 

The girl seem unfazed. “My name is Carol Adslaw. You don’t even _need_ to introduce yourself. God complex, no manners. You must be a ‘Captain,’” and here Carol made sure to add the gesture indicating quotations, “It seems I wrongfully _assumed_ you knew where we were because, as I recall, you told the helmsman that you had ‘Sailed these waters thousands of times’ and that ‘there is probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for the water being that color.’ I left out the cursing because there are some things even _I_ won’t say.”

 

Worley, flustered, responded, “Young lady, you _will_ respect the Captain -”

 

“Captain? Of what?” Carol interrupted, “The ‘USS Tin Can?’ The only thing I _will_ do is try to find a way _home._ I just needed passage to Baltimore, and you had to go and be an ignorant buffoon…”

 

Worley tuned Carol out after her remark about the Cyclops being a “tin can.” He turned and looked at the crumpled heap that was once his ship – it had to be at least a few miles away, but the beach was almost unnaturally flat, so it seemed as if he could walk to it with only a few steps. It did, indeed, resemble a tin can. He dropped to his knees.

 

Worley cried.


	4. Chapter 4

_VWOOORP VWOOOOORP VWOOOOORP…_

 

This was the sound that made Martha and The Doctor turn around to the empty spot that once had the TARDIS in it.

 

“I suppose _that_ happens a lot too?” Martha said, feigning innocence.

 

“The ship sailing over us into the distance? I’ve only ever seen something like that two and a half times. The TARDIS hopping off somewhere by itself? It happens perhaps more often than I might _want_ it to happen, Ms. Jones. But!” The Doctor exclaimed, brightening up, “Not to worry. I’ll just program my trusty Sonic to lock on to the residual energy that the TARDIS emits.” The Doctor waved his screwdriver at the air as if he were swatting away an imaginary fly.

 

Martha watched The Doctor, trying not to laugh. Is this _really_ the way a sonic screwdriver worked? She had to admit, she had never met anyone this… _interesting._

 

“And eureka!” the doctor exclaimed. “People still say that, right? Eureka? No matter, I have locked on to the energy of the TARDIS and it went _that -_ ”

Before The Doctor could finish his thought, the sands beneath the Doctor and Martha’s feet began sinking, as if someone had just overturned an hourglass and they were standing atop the sands that were slowly emptying into the bottom portion of the glass.

 

Only _this_ particular glass wasn’t emptying _slowly_.

 

It was, Martha reflected, very nearly as if they were being swept away down a drain, as the fine sand seemed to be swirling in a whirlpool-esque fashion, sweeping the Doctor and Martha away helplessly.

 

“What do we do now?!” Martha yelled to the Doctor.

 

“I’ll tell you what we _don’t_ do, Martha Jones!” the Doctor shouted back.

 

“What on earth would that be?!” Martha frantically replied.

 

“Panic!” The Doctor yelled, as it were the simplest thing in the world.

 

“Right!” Martha said, with what she hoped was some sort of courage. After all, what was there to panic about? They were in a sand whirlpool that was emptying into (what she could only describe as) a black hole, and they had absolutely no control over what was going on. They appeared to be frighteningly close to finding out where this “black hole” led.

 

“Whoohoo!” The Doctor shouted.

 

“Are you mad?!” Martha shouted incredulously back at him.

 

“It’s important that you remember that I _absolutely_ am!” replied the Doctor, gleefully, “But you’re having a bit of fun too, _aren’t you_ Ms. Jones?”

 

Martha thought a bit. The last time she was swirling around and around in a circle at such speed, she was on an amusement park ride. She had nearly thrown up then, but something was _different_ about this situation, this moment. It could have been the Doctor, it could have been the fact that they were swirling nonstop towards an unknown destination that contains who knows what, but she…

 

She actually _was_ having fun. “Maybe!” she shouted back at the Doctor, smiling slightly.

 

“That’s the ticket!” he said, beaming.

 

The Doctor and Martha were sucked into an ominous dark hole, laughing and, by all accounts, having fun.

 

To describe the feeling that followed being consumed by the “black hole” would be difficult at best, Martha reflected. It was almost as if she were in a taffy stretcher; her body now suddenly seemed malleable beyond all physical law. She had the fleeting, unnerving sense of being in two places at one time, another fleeting sense that her body was stretched among miles of some sort of tunnel, and suddenly, she was standing outside of another “black hole.” Thankfully, this one was not exerting any significant gravitational pull on her.

 

Martha patted herself down so she could be absolutely certain that her body was indeed the same shape and structure it had always been, then began to concentrate intently on making sure the contents of her stomach _stayed_ there. Once she felt slightly less nauseated, she looked around for The Doctor, eventually finding him standing directly next to her - the fact that he was similarly patting himself down to make sure everything was where it belonged made Martha feel more at ease.

 

 _Somehow, this is normal. At least, to him._ After another pause to make sure she could speak without the nausea getting the better of her, she said “Doctor, what just happened?”

 

The Doctor blinked. “Oh, right. That is probably new to you, isn’t it Ms. Jones? As well it should be,” he continued to speak as he turned to, and began scanning the offending black hole with his sonic screwdriver ( _whreeeee!_ ) He made a clicking noise with his mouth. “This _also_ shouldn’t exist on earth right now. What you just experienced was a journey through a gravitationally inhibited ‘Einstein-Rosen bridge.’ A _wormhole_ ,” The Doctor added with a smirk, after he perceived what must have been a confused look on Martha’s face. “Humans won’t have discovered this method of travel till the late 23rd century, and even then, it will have involved lots of, shall we say, _inventive_ experiments with black holes. It will be the 24th century before they figure out how to stop black holes from turning things into atomic paste, and the 25th before they are able to create black holes themselves for means of personal space/time travel.” The doctor paused, and nodded to himself, affirming that his history lesson was correct. “Right, all over feeling like spaghetti?”

 

 _Black holes? Breathable water?_ Martha’s head was still spinning slightly, but she nodded. “So, we traveled through a wormhole to _where_?” she asked, and noticed the doctor prodding indiscriminately at the air with his screwdriver.

 

“Appropriate question, Ms. Jones,” replied the Doctor as he analytically studied his now silent screwdriver. “The good news is we are in the same _time_ as we were before. The _interesting_ news is we are roughly 1,900 kilometers to the northeast of _where_ we originally were. Same atmosphere, though – still tastes like ‘raxbo’ or whatever they called it.” He smacked his lips exaggeratedly to confirm this.

 

Martha looked around. It seemed as if there was endless desert in every direction, as far as the eye could see. No other life, no water (except maybe the stuff they were breathing) and bright white light illuminating the sky and visible horizon. The only noticeable object within hundreds of miles seemed to be the suspended black hole they just erupted from.

 

“So,” Martha said to an uncharacteristically silent Doctor, “Now what?”

 

The Doctor, still intently scrutinizing his screwdriver, made a quizzical expression. “I can assure you that ‘now what’ usually happens after someone says ‘now what,’ Ms. Jones. So _now_ , we just have to wait for the _what_. Usually it doesn’t take too long to -”

 

The Doctor was interrupted by a sudden "explosion” from the black hole – two bodies launched forcefully out accompanied by two screams, each belonging to a respective body. The Doctor shot Martha a glance that almost definitely meant “See, what did I tell you?” and ran up to the crumpled heaps of the black hole’s latest victims, sonic screwdriver already scanning as he ran.

 

 “Are you okay? Travel through a wormhole isn’t for the light heart - ”

 

The Doctor was interrupted by loud retching, coming from the male half of the newly deposited pair.

 

“And _there_ it is. Just get it all out, the realignment of molecules can be a nauseating ordeal.” He reached to pat the back of the overly dressed man, but the man shrunk back, staggering quickly to his feet. He un-holstered his revolver and proceeded to point it at the Doctor. “ _You!”_ he said, accusingly. The Doctor looked over both shoulders before pointing to himself, responding to the loud declaration with an embellished, surprised look. “Me?”

The gunman blinked. “Yes, _you._ Who else could I possibly mean? _What did you do to me?_ ”

 

Martha eyed the Doctor. Should she say something? Do bullets even hurt him? She assumed so, but the Doctor was constantly surprising her, so she couldn’t be sure. Right now, he seemed calm, concerned - but there was something _else_. Anger? Exasperation? Just as she had this thought, the Doctor began to speak, slowly and deliberately.

 

“Why do you humans _always_ think guns give you power over people? Even if I _did_ do something to you, which I _haven’t_ , don’t you think that casually pointing a lethal weapon at people might _make_ people want to do less than savory things to you, mister…?”

 

“W-worley. George Worley, Naval Captain of the USS Cyclops.” Worley seemed surprised by just how unshaken, and perhaps even annoyed, that this man was. Generally, being at the end of a gun barrel had a way of humbling a man.

 

“Oh. An American _and_ a soldier.” The Doctor crossed his arms and nodded sagely, as if those two things explained a lot. “They call me the Doctor.” He extended a hand to shake. “See what I’m doing right now, Worley? I’m _talking._ Commonly, people _talk_ to each other when they want to work things out. You know, things like ‘What just happened to me?’ and ‘Are these people friendly?’ The answer to the latter is ‘yes,’ by the way, unless you keep pointing that _thing_ ” the Doctor said this word with a slight hint of contempt, “at me. Then, I assure you, you will have an enemy that you most certainly _do not_ _want_.”

 

Martha realized that she was holding her breath, almost frozen by the Doctor’s commanding presence. Though his hand was still extended, the Doctor’s face had strikingly darkened. He, at least at that moment, seemed like a soldier himself – one that had seen far too much harm done by people like Worley.

 

The hand holding the revolver was visibly shaking, and a range of emotions raced through Worley. Indignation that someone could talk down to him in such a way, anger that he wasn’t being afforded the respect that was usually commanded when he aimed his gun at someone, and resignation at the fact that this… “Doctor” was right. And even though Worley would never admit it, even to himself, he was also experiencing more _fear_ than he thought should be warranted by this (admittedly well dressed) twig of a man.

 

He cautiously lowered his gun and weakly shook the Doctor’s hand. The Doctor’s face snapped back to his usual carefree expression, leaving no hint of the gathering storm it once held. “Right then,” he began, but was interrupted by the female that also traversed the wormhole.

 

“Right, if you two are done with the meaningless posturing, might I suggest we figure out what exactly is going on here? I’m Carol Adslaw, by the way.” She curtsied at both the Doctor and Martha. Martha nodded back, not having been versed in the art of curtsying. The Doctor, however, did a fine job of returning the curtsy.

 

“Mrs. Adslaw, is it?” the Doctor was eying her studiously. “I’m sorry, but have we met before?”

Carol shook her head. “I have one of those faces, and I would have remembered meeting someone as… notable as you.”

 

“Well, Ms. Adslaw and Mr. Worley - ”

 

“ _Captain_ Worley,” Worley interjected.

 

“As I said. This is my companion, Martha Jones. She doesn’t say much, but I’ve found her rather useful in a pinch.” Martha greeted them both with an acknowledging smile. The Doctor continued, “Ms. Adslaw, it seems as if you have no ill effects from traveling through that wormhole…” the Doctor was interrupted by the obligatory “ _whreeeee_ ” of his sonic screwdriver. He scrutinized it for a bit. “Good news, both of your molecules are exactly where they should be. I’ve seen nasty cases of rearranged molecules,” the Doctor now scrunched his face up. “Trust me, you quite underestimate how pleasant having all your appendages in the right places is until they _aren’t_.”

 

As Worley worriedly patted himself down, Carol shrugged and asked, “So, now what?”

 

The Doctor sighed audibly, then paused. He seemed to be counting the seconds, when a low, bass tone began to fill the air. “Ten seconds? That’s the amount of time it takes for the universe to handle questions like ‘now what?’ or ‘how could this get any worse?’ Good to know.” He nodded to himself and turned around, towards where the sound was coming from, and aimed his screwdriver towards it. As the screwdriver emitted its high-pitched noises, the very air (water?) seemed to ripple. “It’s either a cloaking field or a force field, or both. Probably both. We’re lucky we didn’t walk into it,” the Doctor said, matter-of-factly, as the ripples began to grow. The other three were barely registering how unusual a “force field” was when the “field” began to flicker in and out of existence intermittently in response to whatever the Doctor was doing, finally settling on _not_ existing. He lowered his screwdriver and beheld what the forcefield was hiding: A large, crystalline city.

 

“By God, it’s Atlantis!” Worley stammered.

 

“It is neither ‘by God’ or ‘Atlantis.’ There have been many cities called ‘Atlantis,’ but this is not one of them.” The Doctor donned a curious expression. “No, _this_ is definitely Earth-made, but it’s the wrong _time_ for it. But we haven’t left 1918. Fascinating, indeed.”

 

Worley blinked. “Okay, mister – just who and what are you? No Doctor I’ve heard of talks like _that_.”

 

The Doctor sighed. “Martha, can you give him the short version?”

 

Martha looked at Worley.  Shrugging, she said: “Time travelling alien. Possibly superhuman.”

 

“What?” Worley said, perplexed.

 

“Oh _Martha_ , flattery will get you everywhere,” the Doctor replied with mock embarrassment. “It seems like tearing down the force field has attracted some attention.” The Doctor pointed his screwdriver toward the city, where a group of large, finned humanoids were quickly approaching. The Doctor’s face dropped.

 

“Sea devils.”

 

“Sea what?” Martha and Carol said in unison, provoking a halfhearted smirk from the Doctor. In spite of this, he didn’t take his eyes off the rapidly approaching troops.

 

“They are an aquatic variation of the Silurian race – ‘reptilian humanoids’ that colonized this planet millions of years before humans even existed.”

 

“Are they friendly?” Martha asked, cautiously. Her limited experience with alien races had been, thus far, shaky at best, and the finned, reptile-like army was almost upon them.

 

“Spiffing question, Ms. Jones. Let’s just say I _may_ have interacted with the Silurains enough times to make an impression.”

 

Martha sighed, and Worley aimed his revolver at the troops, who were now within 30 feet. “I’ll handle this.” 

 

 

 


End file.
